


Sick for the Big Sun

by MooseFeels



Series: In the Garden of Your Love [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Mild Angst, Teenage Castiel, gardener!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 20:04:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/828302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MooseFeels/pseuds/MooseFeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's family comes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sick for the Big Sun

Sam brushes the hair out of his eyes and stares at the gate. It's bigger than he expected, but then, he's not quite sure anymore what he had expected. Dean had written in his letters that the family was rich, but Sam could never have guessed. Not really.

He picks his suitcase back up when he hears someone say, "Excuse me?"

Sam looks back, and there's a guy there he hadn't noticed before. 

About his age, more or less, with dark hair and bright eyes. He holds his head quizzically, as if Sam were a particularly trying puzzle he hadn't worked out yet.

"Pardon me," he continues, and his deep voice is quite posh, "but who are you?"

Sam feels himself flush a bit. "I'm sorry," he says. "I'm looking for my brother. I don't think he's here though. I'm sorry to disturb you. I'll be on my way."

The guy, his head quirks a little deeper, and he says, "Sam?"

Sam feels his body go defensive of it's own accord- nearly seize into it. "I don't want trouble " he says, automatically.

The guy's face falls. "I don't...I'm not going to hit you," he says. "I know your brother. He's our gardener. I can let you in and you can go see him. Or I could go get him if that would make you more comfortable." His frown deepens. "I thought you were in South Dakota, with your uncle."

It's hard work not to take of running in that instant. Every instinct is screaming at him- this is a trap. This is death. This is how young men die. 

"I'll wait here," he answers. He tries to smile, but he suspects it comes out as more of a grimace than anything. 

The guy smiles. "I'll be right back," he says and he runs off. 

Sam stands at the gate, feeling exposed and stupid for about twenty minutes. He fidgets uncomfortably in his clothes and shifts the weight of his suitcase from hand to hand. He brushes his hair in and out of his eyes. He reminds himself, constantly, that this isn't Dallas. That he was't followed. That he's safe.

It's a lot harder than the little yammering voice in his head makes it sound.

The guy comes back, red-faced and winded. "He told me," he gasps, " he told me to tell you that Wedge...Wedge Antilles isn't in retirement yet."

Dad's still on the road, Sam filters automatically. He also knows that only Dean would know those keywords, an invention of their childhood in motels. Dean's here. Dean's safe. Dean trusts this guy. 

"Can I see my brother?" Sam asks.   
The guy nods. He's still a little red-faced from the sprint. He opens the gate and steps through. "Would be better," he clarifies, haltingly, "if we went around."

Sam nods. Lets the weight of his suitcase settle a little more easily. 

They've walked silently for six minutes before the guy catches his breath and says, "I'm Castiel Milton." He extends his hand awkwardly. 

Sam takes it and shakes. Castiel's grip is sure and practiced, but still stiff. 

"Do you work here, too?" Sam asks.

The guy looks away. He looks almost guilty. "No," he answers. His voice is deep and rough. "My parents own the house."

"Oh," Sam dumbly comments.

The distance between then swells hugely.

"Your brother, Castiel says, "he's very good at what he does."

"Oh," Sam says. "Really? He's a repairman or a chaffeur, right?" 

Castiel shakes his head. "No," he replies, blithely. "He's our gardener."

There is something terribly tender about the way he reaches up and grabs a cluster of flowers and tucks them behind his ear. Something unbearably sweet to the way he says, "Dean's very good. We're very lucky."

Sam's heart hurts a little at that, for reasons he can't quite put his finger on. 

The rest of the walk is in silence. 

They pass through a back gate, and then it's a brief jaunt down a dirt path to a little stone house with bright herbs growing lushly underneath. 

Castiel fishes a key from a windowbox and hands it to Sam. "He's cutting the grass and can't leave. He said you should settle in, though," he explains. 

Sam holds the little silver key in his hand and nods. "Thanks," he replies.  
Castiel smiles. "He thinks very highly of you," he says. "I have been glad to meet you."

"Gosh " Sam answers, "thanks."

Castiel's hands trail over the nodding stems of rosemary and thyme and bergamot as he leaves. He hums softly to himself. 

Sam unlocks the door and walks in. 

He's never thought of Dean as loving books before, or of being...pensive, but the thing is, the space is somehow contemplative. It's rich with books and tools and flowers in various states of dryness and aliveness and decay. It's a space that has picked up a certain Dean-ness despite that. There's a record player with a couple of pieces of vynil nearby. There's Dean's smell. There's the stray container of Chinese takeout in the fridge. For all of the ways it was never what Sam expected, it is exactly what he expected. 

He sits down on the couch. 

He waits for his brother.

He wonders how long he and Castiel have been in love.


End file.
